My elementary experience in being a son,
Came as I lay pondering on how my heart was won.
Father had sung to me on a woodwind Shawm.
I had felt His tender mercies melt my icy dawn.
Next came the strings with high and low stirrings.
These layers hemmed me in with notes appealing.
My art was born and crafted in the core of me.
This language of new creation my choice of speech.
Then came percussion inside my heartbeat soul.
I raised the banner beat attempting inner control,
Not realizing this alone was not my solemn role.
Who was I to ask for such a grandiose goal?
My inner longing for home and being whole,
Became my sole appetite and ambition for condole.
This heart which misfits its own housing,
Is broken down from all this crowding.
I want fluid Spirit flowing through my veins,
As wind through a flute, proclaiming harmonious strains.
“Oh, how can a heart which bleeds be the instrument of peace?”
Only a Savior can answer these cries of, “Please!”
Empty, and then fill this eroded emotional vessel,
That I may cross back into life, from this rifted threshold.
I desire a soul that’s innocent and wise,
Which takes only Godly delight in family ties.
How have I been undone all this time; never free,
Through all knowing plans, with races won and yet to run?
Because I am not the master but He,
And in this musical key I chose to agree.
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